Quillpen, inky fingersOne writer ponders ...

Have you seen her? Ms Muse, that is. Every time I catch a glimpse of her she looks different but she’s a female, of indeterminate age, about 5’3” with hair that is … changeable (I suspect she has a fabulous collection of wigs). I may be doing her a disservice because she might still be quaking somewhere after last night's thunderstorms, but the truth is she definitely disappears for extended periods. Last December she was off indulging in mince pies and mulled wine and I have the feeling that in February or March, she usually ‘does’ Venice for Carnival, maybe Rio de Janeiro, sometimes both. Shrove Tuesday pancakes at home with plain lemon and sugar? I think not! It’s not her style. I have no idea where she’s gone gallivanting now but this morning I had to resort to doing the ironing, moving furniture and making up beds for a not-very-imminent visit by the family instead of using the fist clear day for weeks to get out into the shed to write. It was the same in March so back then I was forced to redecorate the whole house. I could be on my fourth novel by now, if Ms Muse wasn’t so flighty. With nine classical Muses, Greek goddesses lending assorted know-how to fortunate artists, she could be anywhere, with any of them. Capricious madam! I doubt if it’s Calliope, with her penchant for epic poetry, though I do have a very long daft-ditty lurking in a file somewhere. It would be grand if Callie came to give me a hand finishing it. Euterpe and I don’t see eye to eye over lyric poetry. Can someone tell me what ‘lyric poetry’ might be? Or ‘literary fiction’ for that matter. Lyric: is that lines that rhyme, have metric measure or intellectual stature? Are they more profound than the average limerick to be found flicking through my frivolous head? Thalia, with her comedy is more Ms Muse’s type, though I don’t think she harnesses Thalia’s inclination for pastoral poetry. Her pastoral idyll is more likely to be blowing a very loud fart-like noise using a blade of grass held between her thumbs! Polyhymnia? Nah. Sacred poetry just isn’t Ms Muse’s style; I refer you to my daft ditties and irreverent limericks. I’m pretty sure Ms Muse wouldn’t be hanging out with ‘Nia. Melpomene? Tragedy? Give me a break! Ms Muse has had her input on a few issues that have upset my readers who wail, ‘Don’t let anything happen to the dog!’ but she doesn’t really do tragedy. So why did Will have to die? That is Clio’s fault. For readers who know Exposed to All Villainies, William Mattock, Hester’s husband, really did die in 1646. Clio’s field is History and what she says, goes. I can’t mess with Clio! Neither does Ms Muse which is why I don’t think they’re hanging about together. Has Ms Muse gone off on a merry dance then? With Terpsichore? That might have been her, in the ‘Strictly Come Dancing 2016 Reveal’, trying to set up a mosh-pit in front of the band. No, sorry, that was Erato who normally does dodgy performances, extempore love-poetry, wearing nothing but a diaphanous strip of silk and a pair of dark glasses. I have heard Ms Muse look at the stars, their lustre dusting the velvet of a midnight sky, but her reaction was to shrug and say, ‘What did you get me out of bed for? It’s naff-all to do with me!’ so I have the feeling she’s probably not with Urania studying astrology either. But dearest Muse of mine …wherever you are… I just want to say that the ironing’s done, I’ve made the beds and the sock drawer is immaculately tidy. So could you drop by for a bit? Please.